Pride season is often described as a celebration of joy, resistance, and visibility. For many in the LGBTQ+ community, it’s a chance to be loud, proud, and unapologetically themselves. But for neurodivergent queer folks like me, that visibility during such events can come at a steep cost: sensory overload, burnout, and the lingering pressure to show up in ways that don’t always align with our own needs.
I’m an autistic and queer travel writer, and I spend a lot of time thinking about access–especially the kind that isn’t always visible. Much of my work focuses on accessibility in travel, but that perspective has a way of creeping into every part of my life, including the ways I engage with community spaces like Pride. Over the years, I have had the opportunity to experience several Pride events in different countries across the globe.
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Most people associate Pride with street parties, late-night clubbing, parades with booming music, and glitter-covered crowds. It’s beautiful in theory–and sometimes in practice too–but it’s also exhausting. These events are rarely designed with sensory needs in mind.
When you’re autistic or otherwise neurodivergent, even a joyful space can become overwhelming fast. For me, that usually happens sometime after the parade has ended but before the after parties have even begun. I’ve pushed myself to show up anyway, thinking I “should” be able to handle it. But more often than not, I end up drained, overstimulated, and full of regret for staying too long.
Nightclubs are often sensory hellscapes. They are extremely loud, often overcrowded, full of flashing lights, typically lacking ample seating, and interactions rely heavily on body language and eye contact. Pride only exacerbates this. Afterparties push venues to capacity, making all these elements even more intense. For those of us who struggle with sensory processing, that can make enjoying ourselves virtually impossible.
This year at Melbourne Pride, things played out differently. I had plans to attend the street festival during the final event with friends, many of whom are also neurodivergent. The streets were already packed by the time we arrived, with music pumping from every corner, attendees dressed flamboyantly in the summer heat, and rainbow flags strung across buildings. It was beautiful, vibrant, and absolutely intense.
I was managing okay being with a group I felt secure around, pacing myself through the crowds, and checking in with my sensory needs. But some of my friends weren’t doing as well. One of them turned to the group mid-afternoon after exploring the main strip and simply said, “I need to get out of here.” We opted to slip into our favorite cozy Korean izakaya just across the road from the main gay club in the area. It’s small, softly lit, atmospheric, and had that comforting hum of conversation and clinking dishes.
While much busier than usual, the space immediately felt like a sanctuary, and we were given a large table overlooking the festivities through open windows. Even though we were still technically in the heart of the celebration, it felt like we’d stepped into an alternate version of Pride–one that was quieter, slower, and so much more sustainable for our energy levels. We stayed for hours, ordering small plates, catching up, drinking, and just enjoying the presence of each other without the pressure to perform celebration in any particular way.
That experience stayed with me, not just because it was enjoyable, but because it marked a shift in how I relate to Pride. I used to think I had to show up for the loudest, most crowded events in order to feel like I was “doing it right.” But the truth is, Pride has never been one-size-fits-all. For neurodivergent people, and for so many others who find mainstream Pride spaces inaccessible, that model often leaves us out.
Creating quieter alternatives for yourself isn’t about opting out of Pride, it’s about carving out space within it. In recent years, I’ve started seeing more community-led efforts to make Pride more accessible: sensory-friendly events, chill-out zones, and sober or low-stimulation gatherings away from the main crowd are slowly becoming more common. But we still have a long way to go.
In the absence of formal accessibility measures by organizers, many of us have taken it into our own hands. People now host picnics, go for beach walks, have dinner parties, or even just spend the day with a trusted friend doing something that feels affirming. These moments might not look like Pride from the outside, but they embody its core: chosen family, joy, resistance, and authenticity.
As a travel writer, I’m often asked to recommend events or destinations that are inclusive of disabled and neurodivergent people. The frustrating answer is that most of them still aren’t. True accessibility and inclusion are constantly evolving concepts, and we have a long way to go before reaching anything close to what should be considered acceptable. But that doesn’t mean we stop seeking joy or community. It means we get creative. It means we advocate. And it means we stop apologizing for needing something different from the majority.
I’ve built a platform around helping destinations understand that inclusion isn’t just about ramps and captions (though those are critical). It’s also about building understanding and compassion from those who interact with travelers, and making room for rest, sensory regulation, and self-determination.
This is how you attract neurodivergent people, get them talking positively with others, and keep them coming back again and again. Pride, in many ways, is a mirror of that broader conversation. It asks us to examine who these spaces are for, and who gets left out when we don’t expand our definition of what celebration can look like.
There’s nothing radical about needing quiet. There’s nothing wrong with leaving the party early or skipping it altogether. Queer joy doesn’t have to be loud to be real. Sometimes, it looks like a booth in a restaurant where everyone feels safe enough to just breathe at their own pace.
I’m not saying I’ll never attend another big Pride event again. But I am saying I won’t force myself into spaces that don’t support my wellbeing. And I won’t feel guilty for choosing smaller, slower, or quieter ways to connect with friends and the broader community.
For those of us who experience the world differently, that choice isn’t just self-preservation–it’s an act of Pride in itself.
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